


Just Like Ruin

by takesguts



Category: Gotham (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Multi, Murder, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takesguts/pseuds/takesguts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU/Canon-ish/Crossover] When Jerome was sixteen, growing up simply became stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a mostly drabble-ish sort of fic. It won't follow any sort of main story arc, or full on plot. But will be scenes and moments between the characters themselves at different stages in their lives. I will be accepting prompts for this fic/universe. See the end for my tumblr info, thanks for reading~

Sixteen was when Jerome’s life started becoming well - simply...strange.

 

 

The circus spent a couple of weeks in Chicago that summer, the days long, hot, and brutal. Most of the time, Jerome kept to his mother’s snake. The intensity of the heat made her sluggish during the day, and he often ensured she remained cool enough in the shade so she could be active in the evenings for the more popular shows.

 

 

That’s how he met dear, darling Mickey Milkovich. Him, and what Jerome at the time had suspected to be his teenage version of wannabe cronies had been bumming around the circus grounds early one afternoon. Loud, obnoxious, and most definitely intoxicated. Under normal circumstances, Jerome held no tolerance for such behavior. One drunk in his life was enough, what, with his mess of a so called mother.

 

 

That day felt hotter then normal, and he alternated between hosing Sheeba off and his own legs. Clothes of his own were hard to come by, never enough money to purchase them himself; which is why he was subjected to the hot burn of the unforgiving sun in the tiny pair of shorts so graciously donated by one of the generous acrobat girls.

 

 

“You some kinda fag, or somethin?”

 

 

Jerome never reacts out of impulse; a lesser boy - er, man, whatever it is that he was, would have turned blindly, defending himself. He knew sixteen was the time when most people his age started “growing up” and “finding themselves”. However Jerome has always felt past that - or that he had never been entitled to such an allowance.

 

 

So it’s with absolute poise, grace, and certainty that Jerome turns around, hooking the hose around the back of his neck. Remaining drops from the nozzle drip onto his vneck, dampening the fabric, and he feigns a polite expression, just like he practiced.

 

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

 

The guys surround him, like every bad high school bullying movie he had ever watched. If teenage dramas were anything to go by, he knew he would either be jumped by these boys, roughed up a bit. Possibly raped.

 

 

Both outcomes rather thrill him.

 

 

The leader of the group smirks, circling around him, swiping a thumb under his bottom lip. He’s shorter then Jerome, but stockier, most definitely stronger.

 

 

“Stupid, too?” He mocks, taking a step closer. Jerome only rolls his shoulders back, cocking a hip.

 

 

“Not nearly,” he purrs, swinging the nozzle of the hose around in slow, lazy circles.

 

"So then you know what I meant, yeah?"

 

 

"I believe you were asking me if I was a homosexal," Jerome responds evenly, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the ground. "In rather _stupid_ terms."

 

 

"What did you fucking say?"

 

 

The guy's blue eyes flash threateningly, but Jerome only feels the urge to laugh. He can feel it, pooling in his stomach, the uncontrollable hysterics.

 

 

"I am certain you are not deaf," he says, dropping the hose behind him, at his heels, "but why don't you come closer and find out for yourself?"

 

 

The rush Jerome is getting is unlike anything he's ever felt before - he almost wishes one of them would hit him. There's four of them total, Jerome knows he couldn't take them all at once, but if he can scare one, he can scare them all. Never doubt a person's natural fight or flight.

 

 

Their own laughter erupts among them, and the leader - with his dark hair, and dark clothes, rolls his shoulders in what Jerome can only assume is possibly the same excitement he is experiencing himself.

 

 

"Boys, it's like this faggots askin for it," he announces, spreading his arms wide in gesture.

 

 

"I am asking for it," Jerome says, baiting and the next few seconds are a flurry of movement, and reaction time that the red head had no idea he was even capable of. In a matter of moments the guy is in his space, even with his short stature attempting to be intimidating, but Jerome's hands are on his jaw and around his throat just as quickly he almost doesn't realize he's doing it.

 

 

From his left, one of the guy startles, "What the -"

 

 

"Up close," Jerome starts, thumb stroking along the boy's jugular, "your eyes are even more blue then I thought."

 

 

Overwhelming, is the only way he could ever possibly think to describe the sensations overtaking his body. He's never felt so in control and sure of himself in his life. Impulse isn't quite his thing, but unexpectedness seems to pack quite the punch. Under his grasp, the other swallows hard, but he doesn't look away - holds Jerome's gaze with equal defiance, as if he were also accepting whatever fate for him was decided.

 

 

Intrigued, is the next thing Jerome feels.

 

 

In five, four, three - Jerome counts, imagines that his cronies will attempt to rush him, so he grips the guy's throat harder, until he chokes outloud under the pressure.

 

 

"Ah, ah," Jerome scolds, eyes slitting, casting an eager sideways glance, "I'm not so sure you'd want to make that move."

 

 

It's false bravado - Jerome is pretty certain he couldn't snap a neck if he tried five times, but they don't know that. Scare your prey, wear them out.

 

 

"You gonna tease me, gorgeous?" He rasps, grinning wildly, a set of lovely teeth flashing.

 

 

Blood rushes hot, all over his body, in a way Jerome has never really felt before. His body's natural instincts have never interested him much, he's always been able to will that nonsense away. But this - this is something new, something different. He drops the hand on the guy's jaw to wrap around the other side of his throat and nearly moans.

 

 

Composure, he reminds himself, is an adequet sense of being. Taking a rough, ragged breath he squeezes, just a bit.

 

 

"Gotta name, lovely?" He croons, and the boy's around him are edging closer, uncertain.

 

 

"Mickey," he gasps, hands reaching up to close around Jerome's wrists, but he's not fighting, he's not pushing.

 

 

"Mickey," Jerome repeats, curling his tongue around the sound, "Mickey, Mickey."

 

 

Another count down - this time from ten; he's getting bored, with no extra incentive to continue and he knows he's done what he aimed to do. He gets to five before he lets go, and takes a grand step back.

 

 

Delighted, he watches as the boy - _Mickey_ , he repeats - reaches for his throat, but those blue eyes never stray.

 

 

For a second, he can sense Mickey considers rushing him, all five of them now that he is free because there is certainty on his behalf that they would win. But curiosity stops him. Curiosity, astonishment, and just that little bit of fear.

 

 

"Mick," one urges, stepping forward.

 

 

Mickey holds a hand out.

 

 

"Let's ditch this dump," he croaks, and Jerome wonders if he will bruise, "fag's not worth the effort. It'd be too easy."

 

 

It's a farce, Jerome can tell, doesn't want his buddies to know how rattled he is and the red head shifts on his heels in absolute pleasure. What a lovely little thing he is.

 

 

Snorting and disgusting, they turn to leave, with empty threats of returning, more prepared, how they won't let this go. But Mickey, he keeps glancing back, a hand on his neck and Jerome can't help pulling his shirt up, the dark fabric bunching under his fingertips as he mock flashes the boy, blowing him a kiss.

 

 

When they're far enough away that he knows he's alone, Jerome slides his hand down his stomach, and for the first time in his life has the urge to...touch himself. He certainly hopes that won't be the last he sees of adorable, willing Mickey.

 

 

Something new is buzzing in his veins; a power he never knew he had.

Suddenly, there is so much to look forward to.


	2. Bloodied Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I picked my teeth off the ground like they'd been there before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a filler. I have big, big plans for this relationship, but I needed to get their official introduction out of the way. Remember to leave me prompts, please! Thanks for all the feedback on this, its wonderful.

That evening, Jerome reads up on sex.

 

 

Nothing entirely pornographic, strictly informational. Since hitting puberty the red head has cared very little about the subject, especially in lieu of his mothers habit of caring more partying and sleeping around then making sure her son has food for the evening. In fact, until this afternoon, when he felt that rush of pleasure that felt so consuming his spine tingled and his skin burned from the outside, in; Jerome wouldn’t have been ashamed to say he despised the act, the mere thought of intercourse.

 

  
Former disgust, however, is dissolving more into morbid curiosity the longer he researches. Sexual sadism, masochism, BDSM…the lists go on and on, enlightening Jerome to things he never even knew existed - that people did as a means of pleasure.

 

 

He considers how small Mickey was, despite the broadness of his chest and his shoulders. He’d look nice tied up in lovely silk ribbons, Jerome fantasizes, the contrast divine against that pale skin. This is something incredibly poisonous - he can tell. Some sort of dark matter infecting his blood, his mind.

 

 

If Mickey doesn’t show up on his own, Jerome decides he will go searching himself. He’s got a hunger to satisfy.

 

 

\- - - -

To his extreme delight, however, Jerome only has to wait until the following afternoon around the same time as the day before. He sees Mickey first and that's just how he wanted it. Being able to hunt his prey before the kill, stalk him, make him wait, make his pulse soar with anticipation.

 

 

He's in the center of rows of tents, and trailers. Dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a black wifebeater, Jerome can tell he's trying to seem casual - like maybe he really did come here to pick another fight, even the score. But Jerome is smart, very smart, like he said before. He can't forget the way Mickey swallowed under his fingertips, eyes glazed and narrowed, peering up at him nearly helpless.

 

 

Jerome isn't quite sure what he will do with Mickey once he has him, is running blind, just chasing an ugly sort of thrill that's forming in the corner's of his skull, the base of his groin. But he is sure of his thirst, the need gnawing at his bones.

 

 

The sun is blaring, an ever present singe on his fair skin, but the pain of the burn keeps him grounded when he steps through the maze of tents, keeps him from perhaps literally pouncing. The boots he's wearing stop halfway up his calves, making them sweat and pinch, and they're heavy and clunky, even for girl's boots but Jerome pays attention to detail and his little darling couldn't hide the way he pined after the length of Jerome's legs.

 

 

Despite the horrible introduction, Jerome is willing to reward good behavior.

 

 

It's his footsteps that get Mickey to turn around, appearing to have been in the middle of maybe talking himself out of hanging around longer, a mixture of frustration and self loathing in his face, but those eyes. Those pretty, pretty baby blues can't hide a thing from Jerome, something he cannot wait to exploit; because the relief he sees shining bright at him is enough to make Jerome's blood sing.

 

 

"Fucker," Mickey starts, and Jerome forces himself to not twirl in circles at the way he's clearly scrambling for dignity, "you're a fucking -"  


 

"You came back for me," Jerome interrupts, gleeful, hand over his heart, "didn't even keep a lady waiting that long. Fate at it's finest."

 

 

Scoffing, Mickey glances around, like somebody might be listening, watching. Like maybe Jerome has his own group of neanderthals waiting behind tent flaps. He's absolutely crawling out of his skin, the neatly slicked locks from yesterday looking curled, maybe a little dirty. Did he sleep, Jerome wonders? Or was he kept up all night, hands touching his throat in disbelief, and wonderment. Did he want to know what it was, that delicious little spark, that rush of fear and power licked at his mind, just the slightest bit.

 

 

The thoughts make Jerome shudder, even in the heat, and he has to remind himself that he's supposed to call the shots here, and despite how good his hard cock would feel pressed against the confines of his tiny pair of deninm shorts, he doesn't want to be too obvious.

 

 

"I came here to warn you not to pull that shit again," the dark haired boy threatenens, stepping a few feet closer with his shoulders taut, and in his own way, he looks almost menacing. A litter of tattoos adorning his pale skin, the crooked, challenging way he half grins, that don't fuck with me attitude he practically radiates.

 

 

It makes Jerome sigh dreamily.

 

 

"What are you going to do," Jerome mocks, and he moves forward enough to eliminate the nearly the rest of the distance between them. He leaves an arms length, though, just to be able to watch Mickey reach for the rest of it.

 

 

"You going to beat me up?" He presses, the stretch of his smile making his jaw ache. "Or maybe run and tell my mommy?"

 

 

"I'll fucking kill you, faggot," Mickey spits, but there's a shake behind his words, cracks in his foundation.

 

 

Jerome's grin is nearly face splitting, and he claps his hands together happily, "Why wait? Let's give it a go now."

 

 

Growling, Mickey surges forward and Jerome eyes his desperation with poorly masked excitement. He's expecting the blow to his face, knuckles cracking jawbone, and his teeth nearly bite through his cheek. Blood pours in his mouth, tasting like metal, and the red head cackles. Mickey isn't expecting Jerome's rebuttal though, the way he jumps on him, knocking them both to the ground. Jerome feels his knees scrape against some gravel, and his mouth is on Mickey's in a matter of seconds. He's never kissed anyone before - he doesn't think it goes like this, however, the harsh clicking of their teeth, the blood from his mouth mixing with their saliva as they lick at each other, but its a rush all the same - something Jerome would do more then once, whenever he pleased.

 

 

"Stupid fucking - " Mickey is mumbling, and the skin around Jerome's mouth feels wet, sticky. When he pulls back for a second, just to look, there's blood all around Mickey's lips and Jerome wants to howl and use his tongue to clean it up.

 

 

"Pretty Mickey," Jerome murmurs, tonguing the boy's teeth, "pretty fucking Mickey."

 

 

They stay like that for only another minute or two - before Mickey shoves him, breathing hard, eyes wild and uncertain. It makes Jerome laugh, reaching out to pet his hair which only earns him another push.

 

 

"Don't fret!" Jerome says, only the slightest bit taunting. "I won't tell, don't you worry."

 

 

"You - you better," he's stammering, looking flustered and angry, but also like he might get into Jerome's space again. The power he feels is electrifying, intoxicating. Maybe this is what it's like to be drunk, this addictive feeling Jerome wants to lose himself in.

 

 

Mickey looks good like this; afraid and vulnerable.

 

 

Fingers twitching at his side, Jerome forces himself from grabbing at him again.

 

 

"I said," he repeats, firm and unrelenting, green eyes hard, "I'll keep your dirty little secret. Come back tomorrow."

 

 

It's not a question; Jerome is now certain of exactly what he wants.

 

 

The doubt in Mickey's face is so obvious, Jerome is positive he could touch it. But that's okay, Mickey doesn't have to worry; Mickey with his blue eyes and dark hair and sweet little noises from the back of his throat. Jerome has got it from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takesguts.tumblr.com
> 
> prompts, prompts, prompts  
> pr-prompts!
> 
>  
> 
> Pleeeease.


	3. Further Speculation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you've got some sugar for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just, yaknow. What happens.

Losing his virginity, or whatever, is rather anti climatic at first.

 

 

Mickey fucks him, and it's odd. He'd just been curious - an experiment, or something. See what all this fuss was about. Jerome knew Mickey preferred to take it, and it showed in his awkward fumbling throughout the entire thing. He barely touched Jerome, kept moving his hands, fluttery and unsure. Nothing feels particularly good about it, just a dull, moving pressure in his asshole that's more distracting then it is pleasurable. Boring is an understatement, and it only goes on for six minutes before the red head shifts away.

 

  
Unimpressed, he makes a face.

 

 

"Disappointing," he says, despite how embarrassed and small Mickey looks. That's almost enough to make up for it, though. Very few things in Jerome's sixteen years of life had been as pleasing as the past couple of days with Mickey; learning all these delightful ways to break down the other boy's attitude until he was a compliant little thing.

 

 

"The fuck you want it for then, man," he replies anyway, starting to get off of the couch in angry, jerky movements. He's humiliated, and it's beautiful how he looks like a wounded animal trying to get away. For a couple of moments, Jerome watches him, how he grabs at his clothes on the floor with trembling hands. There's no doubt he would leave, if he manages to get dressed, but this is Jerome's second experiment.

 

 

"Mickey," he croons, "get on your knees."

 

 

There's a heavy pause; he's got his hands full of clothes but his body is now so still, anger disappearing in an instant.

 

 

"Fuck off," he says back, but it's weak, hardly a comeback compared to his normal standards.

 

 

"Knees," he urges, sitting up, feet on the floor, legs open.

 

 

Another pause before Mickey is dropping his clothes, and then to his knees. He crawls between Jerome's thighs without even having to be asked and the notion to praise him crosses Jerome's mind, but he really doesn't think he's worked for it hard enough just yet.

 

 

This, however -

 

 

Mickey's mouth is way better then his cock. Tight, wet heat that makes Jerome feel primal, makes him hold Mickey's head down. His throat is absolutely lovely even when he's gagging on Jerome's dick, eyes scared and determined.

 

 

"That's good," Jerome praises, allowing him a small victory, and he can tell the way it crawls up Mickey's spine. How he rolls his shoulders back, opens his jaw more.

 

 

When he fucks Mickey, it's extraordinary, the way he just takes it. Quick, and ruthless, Jerome gives it to him just how he begs. It's rougher, more raw then his throat, and even tighter then the red head imagined. If he was some pre pubescent teenager enthralled with the obsession of sex he may have actually finished within the first few minutes; Mickey's asshole was practically strangling his cock, to the point of near discomfort. But the dark haired boy himself, however, was a panting, quivering wreck; face pressed into the cushions of the couch, knees bent and thighs open.

 

 

Watching him fall apart was more then half of the fun, and when Jerome slipped a finger in beside his cock, the sound Mickey made was positively obscene. He would have to tape it one day.

 

 

Its easy for Jerome to get lost in the simple rythym of fucking, however, and Mickey comes way before him. He's almost certain he isn't going to finish at all, but the way Mickey whimpers and squirms from over sensitivity, like he's trying to get away from the sensation but wouldn't dare tell Jerome to stop is what ends up doing him in.

 

 

What a lovely thing. Control.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I owed at least a little bit of porny stuff before I skipped ahead. Mild though, bc I am lame. 
> 
> AND ALSO BEGGING FOR PROMPTS THAT NONE OF U PEOPLE GIVE ME. PROOOOOMPTS.


End file.
